


between chaos and control

by stylinsoncity



Series: the wonderlands [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-20 06:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11330652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinsoncity/pseuds/stylinsoncity
Summary: companion piece to 'the wonderlands' written from Louis' POV





	between chaos and control

**Author's Note:**

> a good friend said to me that Louis in 'the wonderlands' is a mollusk — hard and tough, but only on the outside. so this piece is appropriately soft and gooey where and when necessary.

One Direction wrote and toured their last album in 2006. One member was getting married. Another was breaking into the film industry. Most were working on solo music.

But Louis tried his hand at anonymity.

He partied a lot and fucked around often, but it was the locale that made the difference. He sought out places where no one cared who he was. Travelling frequently was the key. He met his first in Vancouver. His name was Michael and he was 47 to Louis’ 25. Louis had fooled around a bit before him. There was one very intoxicated hand job with the band member who was now married, and two or three blowies along the way with strangers he met during tour.

But Michael was the first man to approach him, the first to not be inebriated beyond reason before they touched each other, the first to cup his jaw and kiss him slow, and Louis had never been touched by a man like that. He’d never been wanted and then caressed.

The caress changed everything.

His time with Michael was the most prominent reason he confined himself to a private life for a while. He needed time to be gay. And in his twenties, he had an imminent solo career that hinged on him being...not gay. But one year of his personal hiatus turned to two, then three, then four, and the thought of putting out an album, touring, and being one person in the spotlight and another in the dark seemed less and less appealing.

He still worked on music. In the quiet of his bedroom. On holiday somewhere alone. For a while, it was in Jamaica. Music is the Great Reliever so Louis wrote to feel okay again. He smashed his fingers into his piano keys because it had the same effect as squeezing a stress ball. He belted power ballads in the shower because it was the best alternative to screaming at the top of his lungs and he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs nearly every day of his life.

“I’M GAY.”

Something like that.

When he told his mum, he said it in those words. She was noticeably not surprised.

_“Is it that obvious?”_

_“No, love, but I’m your mum.”_

As it turned out, he didn’t have to yell the words to her or say them at all. But the world was vast and its inhabitants were many, and that was what Louis worried about most. Not what his mum would think, but everyone else.

How and what was Louis Tomlinson meant to be in the face of seven billion and counting?

†

Record producer is the answer, and it comes to him in the space between waking and a dream. Nightmare, more like. PIcture him at 18. With his red trousers and soft hair and a constant effeminate blush to his baby face. Picture him with his limp wrists and his petite frame and an avid appreciation for Britney Spears. Picture him sat in front of five big wigs as they express their ‘concern regarding his image’ before laying out in great detail the measures they were taking to protect it. They slipped him poison under the pretence of making him safe.

He wakes in a cold sweat knowing he isn’t that eighteen-year-old in the boardroom anymore, but it only settles him for an instant before he thinks of a kid somewhere who might be. And that’s where Louis fits in the grand scheme of the Great Big World. He’s the one who makes sure that never happens.

In the morning, 28 Productions is born.

†

**MARCH 2016**

Louis removes his glasses as a curly-haired girl steps onto the stage. She’s got the neck of a red Les Paul in her hand and the laces of her Chuck Taylors are loosely tied, slapping the hardwood softly as she walks. She stops centrestage and lifts the guitar strap over her head and approaches the mic.

"What's your name, love?" Louis asks, although he knows already because it’s on the paper in front of him.

"Andromeda Styles.” She pushes the brim of her baseball cap upwards a bit. “Everyone calls me Andy."

"That's a sick name,” Louis replies, propping his elbows up on the table and folding his hands together.

She smiles. "Thanks. It was my mum's idea."

"Smart mum," Louis says. "It's a name fit for a star."

Andy tips her head to him. "Lucky I'm here to be a star.”

Louis' lips twitch. She’s cheeky. He likes cheeky. "What are you playing for us?"

"Paint It Black by The Rolling Stones," Andy says, reaching again for the neck of her guitar.

“Nice choice.” Louis appreciates the Stones and he’s in need of some variety. He heard two Whitney Houston songs earlier, but that was about as classic as things got. At this point, he’ll go for anything that isn’t One Direction.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says.

She nods, clears her throat and puts her mouth to the mic. At first, she doesn’t play at all. She sings the first four lines acapella and she’s got a phenomenal voice, a raspy heavenly soprano that floods the room and everything in her path. Then she takes a minute step back with her eyes directed at her guitar, but it’s a wonder she can track the movement of her hands at all with how they _fly_.

The borderline patronising smile Louis has been wearing all morning slips away and his lips part in a half-formed 'oh'. Beside him, Amy Miles, one of his execs, and Rodney Jerkins are just as stupefied. Andy looks up and out at them as she pivots forward and sings again, faster now. She sings the last verse and then plays the rest of the song out, her head nodding along to the beat, foot tapping, and then she’s finished with a polite bow of her head.

Louis sits forward, his hands folded in front of his mouth.

"Who taught you to play?" he asks after a second.

"My dad," Andy says, tentatively, obviously thrown by his terse response. He'd give her more but he's actually at a loss for words. "When I was five," Andy adds.

The mum gives her a big name. The dad teaches her guitar. Louis sees where their heads were at. His mum had pushed him to audition for the X-Factor and had even joked once saying, ‘go make us rich’. But that wasn’t how her mind worked. Everything she did or encouraged him to do was for his own sake. Then there are the parents who see their children as tools to further their empire or sharpen their legacy, as Andy’s must’ve.

"Are your parents here?" Louis asks.

"Just my dad," Andy says, her eyes flickering to a point behind Louis, probably to the dad. Louis doesn't turn to look at him.

"Good," Louis says, drawing three asterisks beside her name on the paper before him. "You can go tell him you're through to the next round."

Andy's cool disposition crumbles. She shouts, curling both hands into fists and thrusting them into the air. Behind him, someone shouts too — the dad, Louis assumes — and Andy hops twice before collecting herself.

"Thank you, Louis,” she says, putting her hands together and bowing her head. “Thank you."

"Thank  _you_ ," Louis says, watching her hurry off the stage. And he means it more than she knows. He wants to hoist his hands into the air too.

Because he thinks he's just found his lead singer.

†

**JULY 2016**

He turns out to be wrong about the dad, though. His name is Harry and he’s not the power-hungry, attack-dog parent Louis expected. (That would be Rose’s sister, Rachel.)

Harry is oddly reserved and looks like he’s got a thousand thoughts firing off in his head at all times. He keeps his dark curly hair ridiculously long and plays with it often or twists the numerous rings around his fingers incessantly.

He’s gorgeous.

And Louis sort of enjoys looking at him, although he only allows himself to do it when he’s not in danger of being seen. Right now, for example, mostly everyone else in the boardroom has their heads down, pens moving across the ten-page contract before them. But Harry is twirling his pen between his fingers.

Today is perhaps the biggest day of Louis’ career and it hinges almost entirely on Andy Styles. The other girls are incredibly talented, as they would have to be because Louis picked them. But Andy is the one the fans will naturally flock to, the one with the voice people will stop to hear, the one who will make or break the band.

And her father can’t seem to bring himself to sign her contract.

Andy whispers something to him and gives him a nudge, but Harry hesitates still. He then lifts his head and looks right at Louis.

He’s scared. Of this whole process, maybe. Or of Louis himself. The power-hungry dad would have come prepared to sign their child’s life away. They would’ve bitched and moaned over the contract until it satisfied them. Rachel, for example, kept Louis’ lawyers in deliberations for a full two hours longer than the rest.

But Harry isn’t prepared at all, is he?

Louis smiles, trying to say in the smallest way possible that he’s not the power-hungry producer either. And maybe Harry believes him, because he lowers his gaze and signs the contract.

†

**JANUARY 2017**

"What do you think of Andy’s dad?” Louis asks over the sound of  _Luther_ playing on the telly. He then stuffs a handful of popcorn into his mouth to seem as unconcerned with the answer as possible.

Fizzy looks across the couch at him and Louis waits expectantly. "He's nice,” she says. “Funny. I like him."

Louis looks at the TV again, chewing his popcorn with verve. He stops just long enough to mutter, "Me too.”

Fizzy is quiet for a while, but she's not looking at her phone and not really watching the film either. "You like him  _how_?" she asks eventually.

Louis shrugs, setting the popcorn aside. He takes his time dusting his hands and shirt off. Then rests his hands in his lap and sighs. "I'm thinking of asking him to have dinner with me."

He rolls his head to the side and finds her grinning at him.

"I think that's a great idea," she says.

He lifts a throw pillow and lobs it at her. Can’t say why.

"Louis and Harry sitting in a tree—"

"Jesus. Are you joking?” Louis says. “I’m almost forty."

She laughs, sitting close so she can throw her arms around his shoulders. "You've never told me before when you've had a crush on anyone."

“It’s not exactly a crush,” Louis says. “I wouldn't risk my band for a crush.”

"You've got to make this one work,” Fizzy says. "He's fit."

Louis huffs a laugh. "Let go of me already."

Fizzy does let him go, but only so she can rest her head on his shoulder. He surrenders, dropping his arm around her shoulders. Another minute passes.

“I might’ve kissed him.”

Fizzy sits upright again, her eyes wide. “ _When?_ ”

“Yesterday,” Louis says, covering his face with his hands so it comes out mumbled. “You left with the girls to Starbucks and it just happened.”

“Christ, Lou,” she says, punching him in the shoulder. “He definitely likes you then.”

Louis laughs, resting his head against the back of the couch.  “Suppose so.”

†

**FEBRUARY 2017**

Louis doesn't let people get under his skin. The very instant they wrong him, he takes a generous step back and puts enough space between them in whatever sense necessary so that they’re never close enough to truly sink their roots into him. The exceptions are his closest family and friends.

And Harry Styles.

The first time he realises it's happened is the day after Harry comes to his office with beignets and an apology. Louis is having a solitary drink at his favourite pub, which is how he's spent every Valentine's Day for the last six years. He sees the man on the approach before he even moves. Stardom has taught Louis to be aware of attention on him at all times. So he sips his Bourbon and records all ten minutes that he’s watched from afar until the stranger finally finds his nerve and takes a step closer.

"Hi," the man says when he arrives at the bar, setting his glass of red wine down. He tilts his head at him. "Are you alone?"

It’s such a ridiculous question. Louis has been sitting here  _alone_  for long enough that the answer is obvious. Typically, this is the part where he says 'no' and leaves. Not only because he's never in the mood to meet men in pubs, but because if he talks to a person for long enough, sometimes they figure out who he is. On his worst nights, he'll tell the person to 'piss off' and feel oddly guilty about it later.

There's nothing typical about this night, though, especially when he glances at the man and sees he's got a dimple. Imagine his luck.

"What do you think?" Louis asks him.

The man shrugs. "Can't imagine a couple coming here on Valentine's Day. So I'm guessing you're alone."

" _Ding, ding, ding._ We've got a bright one 'ere.”

He’s being a massive dick. He wonders if Harry would have told him off by now. This bloke seems to like it. He moves closer even. “Could I buy you another drink? You’re getting low.”

When he smiles, Louis looks at his dimple. Maybe it’s the wrong shape. It doesn’t strike him like Harry’s did (does). Maybe it’s because the mole is missing. He’d cupped Harry’s jaw the other night, drawn his head back and pressed his lips there. Thoughts of kissing Harry so close to the mouth lead to thoughts of kissing him on the mouth. Thoughts of kissing him at all lead to thoughts of fucking him.

Louis slaps his glass down atop the bar.

“Think I’m ready to get out of here actually,” he says, stepping down off the stool. He draws a few pounds out of his wallet and leaves them by the glass before lifting his coat and pulling it on. “Coming?”

He can’t bring himself to fuck this stranger in his bed, so he does it on the couch. He enjoys it even. Then he refuses the man his number and pays for a cab to take him home.

In his twenties, he did this with ease. But these days, he can count the seconds on one hand before the loneliness sets back in. When the stranger is gone, Louis turns the shower on too hot and washes the smell of him away, then climbs naked into bed and falls asleep to thoughts of Harry.

†

**APRIL 2017**

The second time he realises it's happened, it's the first of April and the adoption papers were supposed to be postmarked by 30 March. It's not that the due date slips his mind or that he's too preoccupied with work. He'd love for that to be the case, but it isn't.

†

**AUGUST 2017**

Harry spends the months between February and August avoiding Louis as skillfully as possible, but Louis’ not an idiot and he’d have to be to miss the way Harry ducked out of a room whenever he stepped in. He’s been lucky to get a ‘hi’ or ‘bye’, but only in situations where it can’t be helped. And one would think that the avoidance and the duplicity and the immaturity would be enough to inspire Louis to forget him. But that’s apparently not how his head or heart works.

The reality is that Louis feels sick with how often he thinks of Harry and sicker with the thought that he might never stop.

When Andy makes passing comments about her dad in rehearsal, Louis’ ears perk like antenna. Sometimes he wanders onto Harry’s Instagram and Twitter at night after two or three glasses of wine inspire him to be a little reckless. (Note: He stops this practice in June after accidentally liking a picture of Harry’s dinner.)

He maintains hope that the feelings will ebb, but it’s been months and he still aches wherever Harry touched him. When they fucked, he thinks he must have left a part of himself behind. Maybe he should fuck him again and get it back. ‘Closure’ or something.

But that’s a terrible idea, and Louis avoids those in his thirties.

On paper, Eric Fletcher is a damn good idea. He’s a year older and before Louis kisses him, Eric admits to harbouring decade-old feelings for him. Of course, Louis knew that already. He simply neglected to act on it. When One Direction was still recording albums, it was a terrible idea, and when 28 Productions came into existence, Louis just wasn't interested.

But be it loneliness or self-preservation, something inspires Louis to kiss him after a business dinner in June. Eric is eager right from the start. He doesn’t take that half-step back that Harry did. He doesn’t tense up the way Harry did or unravel the way Harry did. He’s open and willing and so easy. Historically, Louis likes to give a little chase. He likes someone to challenge him but Eric isn’t a challenge at all. Louis tells himself that’s what he needs, that maybe he’s been single for so long because he sought the opposite.

And he believes himself until August, specifically the day that ‘Raise Hell’ drops.

There’s a breeze coasting through LA, flirting with the ends of Harry’s hair, while they stand on a balcony overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard. That same breeze carries the scent of Harry’s shampoo or cologne on its back and Louis breathes it in. When Harry laughs, Louis considers the possibility that he might never get over him. He wants to say that to him.

_I can’t be your friend._

_I still want you._

_I wish you wanted me too._

But instead, he laughs with him because Harry makes it so easy to laugh the troubles away.

That’s how Eric finds them, laughing about nothing, which doesn't deter him from not-so-discreetly entreating Louis to his hotel room. When Eric leaves and Harry looks at him knowingly, Louis isn’t sure whether to feel vindicated or apologetic.

Harry manages a soft chuckle, a lifeless comparison to his laughter just minutes earlier. “I think I need another one,” he says, lifting his empty glass. “You?”

“I thought you’d had enough,” Louis says.

Harry shrugs. “...The urge just hit me again,” he says, taking a step away, pushing his free hand into his pocket. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

Apologetic. That’s definitely how Louis feels. He wants to say he’s got nothing to be sorry for, but he has someone who wants him and all he can focus on is Harry’s back as he walks away and all the things he’d like to say to him.

_I still want you._

_I wish you wanted me too._

_I’ll dump him if you do._

†

**NOVEMBER 2017**

“So I started working on this song a while ago,” Andy says. “Sometime last year and I think it's finally good enough for you to hear.”

Louis sighs. “You've got to get that out of your head. This idea that a song has to be perfect before you show it to me. If all you've got is the chorus, I still want to hear it, yeah?”

Andy nods. “Yeah.”

“But anyway, let's hear this perfect tune.”

Andy smiles and adjusts her capo. She tucks a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, removes the pick from between her lips and starts to strum.

It's not perfect, but it will be. Her voice is strong and clear. She alternates strumming patterns, fast then slow. The lyrics are rich with metaphor and double meaning and he can see her singing the song to a sea of people already.

Andy finishes and looks at him, her brows lifted. Louis folds his arms over his chest. “Is it one of your mum’s?”

“It's one of mine,” Andy says. “Although my dad helped a bit.”

“Oh.” Louis straights some sheet music at the piano. “How so?”

Even to his own ears, his reply sounds odd.

But Louis is past the point where that can be helped. He hates how much effort it takes to not think about Harry for a whole hour, especially around Andy. Sometimes she says things that Louis knows she got from her dad. Sometimes she wrinkles her brows the way Harry does or smiles the way Harry does. Sometimes she mentions him outright. And Louis is right back to square fucking one. It’s been over nine months and he’s hardly moved at all. And he hates it but there's nothing to be done about it now.

It's only a matter of time really before he exposes himself. Sometimes he's even tempted to do it on purpose. To look Andy in the eye and say ‘I'm kind of obsessed with your dad and any help in getting over him would be appreciated’. Talk about unprofessional. He feels shitty enough fishing for information during their studio time. He never wants it said that his interest in her has to do with winning her father.

(Not to mention, when it comes to Harry, there’s only losing and longing and too much liquor.)

“I was playing a note in the chorus sharp, but he told me to play it flat. I think it sounds a lot better that way.” She starts playing to demonstrate and it does sound a lot better. Of course, it does. “He helped me with some of the lyrics too.”

Louis gives up entirely. “Does he ever work on his own music?”

“No,” Andy says. “Not that I know of. He used to write a lot apparently, but I think that was before my mum died. We don’t really talk about that though.”

“About your mum dying?”

“No, about the effect it had on him,” Andy says, lifting her guitar away and setting it aside. “I know it really fucked him up, but he’s never said so. He tells me he misses her, but he’s never talked about the psychological effects of it.”

Another thing Louis hates is how much he cares. It’s one thing to want a person, to lust after them. He feels all those things for Harry. But it’s another entirely detrimental thing to actually care. To be concerned with their welfare. To want the best for them. Louis feels those things too.

He hates to imagine Harry unhappy and hates that he can’t do anything about it.

Andy shrugs. “Anyway, I always end up talking about my dad, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Louis says, as diplomatically as he can. “I like the song by the way. You sing about love better than most people can talk about it.”

“Not that I've ever been in love with anyone,” Andy says. “Bit too young for that, I think.”

“No way. My mum always said love could happen at any age,” Louis says. “If you know what love is, you're old enough to feel it. And I don't think you necessarily have to fall in love to know how it feels. Sometimes that's what music and art are about. It's a way to imagine the things you dream of and wish for, not always things you've experienced. Take it from me. Nearly 100 love songs later, I've never been in love once. But I'll know if and when it happens.”

Andy looks at him a bit dumbfoundedly. “Well, shit.”

Louis laughs. “Enough of that. Let's run through the song again.”

†

**DECEMBER 2017**

It’s Christmas Eve at the Westfields in Stratford and they’re over halfway through a BBC Radio One event. Two spotlights shine directly on Harry’s face and Louis’ first thought is that he’s so far gone he’s starting to hallucinate. But then Nick Grimshaw asks, “What’s your name, sir?”

Harry lifts his hand and gives a small wave. With all the light and attention on him, Louis wonders how hard he’s squeezing the mic in his hand, wonders how sweaty his palm is. “I’m Harry.”

“Do you have a question for Louis?” Nick asks. “Or are you considering suing us?”

Harry smiles, his gaze flickering to Nick. “Not suing, no.” Then he’s looking at Louis again and it feels like there’s no one else in the room but them. “How’s your birthday so far?”

‘Better now’, Louis nearly says.

He can hardly focus for the rest of the show, his eyes constantly flickering back to the audience, making sure Harry’s still there and he always is. Later, Alberto tells him that Harry’s waiting outside, and Louis can’t get to him fast enough. He’s going to tell him how good it is to see him and that’s it’s been too long. Most importantly, he’s going to ask him why he’s here.

Harry’s smile could light up every Christmas tree in the vicinity when he sees Louis jogging over to him, and Louis has to know why. When Harry kisses him at his piano and climbs into his lap and pushes the heel of his palm against Louis’ crotch, Louis wants nothing more than to lay him out right there and do the things he’s wanted for nearly a year. But first, he has to know why.

†

**JANUARY 2018**

“Shit, you’re Louis Tomlinson.”

The smile Louis dons is practised. “That’s me.”

The boy’s open-mouthed grin grows. He’s got big bright eyes, curly hair and a nose ring, and oddly resembles a kitten. “I’m Troye,” he says. “You’re obviously here for Harry and not for flowers.”

“Yes to Harry, no to the flowers,” Louis says. “Although I’ll take a biscuit.”

“Of course.” Troye goes to the glass case and grabs a biscuit with a sheet of parchment paper. “They’re ginger molasses.”

“Sounds great. Smells great too. How much do I owe you?”

Troye waves him off. “It’s on the house.”

“They taste amazing,” Louis says after his first bite.

“It’s Harry’s recipe but I made that batch myself,” Troye says, propping his chin on his fist. He won’t break eye contact and he’s about two seconds away from batting his eyelashes.

Louis smiles again and clears his throat. “Harry’s here, isn’t he?”

“He just ran upstairs to feed his dog or something. Should be back any second,” Troye says. “I really love what you’ve done with your hair.”

Harry descends the steps right then, wearing denim shorts, his apron and a cream-coloured jumper with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. He shoots Troye a pointed look. “You’re free to go.”

Troye sends Harry a wink as he steps into the back, lifting his apron over his head. Harry approaches the counter, leaning forward on his elbows, and Louis finds himself leaning close too. “Didn’t flirt with you too much, did he?” Harry asks.

“Not too much,” Louis says.

Troye returns with a tote bag thrown over his shoulder and a pink baseball cap on. “Have fun,” he says, smiling. He does them the courtesy of flipping the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ on his way out. Harry goes to the door and twists the lock, then lowers the blinds.

“That was Troye, by the way,” Harry says. “He’s typically very charming.”

“He  _was_  charming.”

“I’ll tell him you think so.” Harry steps around the counter again and covers the till with a large sheet of fabric. He sweeps his hand across the counter and props his hands on his hips, looking around.

“Need any help?” Louis asks.

“Don’t think so. I just need to grab these flowers for upstairs,” Harry says, and then heads into the back. Louis follows him, leaning against the doorway there. Harry stands in front of a mason jar of sunflowers, repositioning the stems twice before he seems to feel satisfied. He lifts another stem and a set of shears and then sets it all down. He looks at Louis. “Can you tell I’m nervous?”

“Only a little,” Louis says, smiling. “I’m flattered.”

“I don’t really have men over like this,” Harry says. “Usually they’ll take a tour of the bedroom and then leave...” He trails off, his lips pursing. He obviously regrets saying so in the awkward silence that follows.

It would be inhuman for Louis to  _not_  think about the men Harry has been with before him. He gets as jealous as the next person, although there hasn’t been anyone for him to feel jealous over for years. But it’s less Harry’s count, however high it is, that bothers him and more the number of men that came through his door and found it in themselves to leave. How does a man spend a night with Harry and forget him? How do they touch or taste him once and decide they’ve had enough? Louis can’t relate.

Harry plays with his bottom lip as he talks. “What I mean is I haven’t had many chances to wine and dine someone,” Harry says. “I don’t think I’ve ever really tried to…  _impress_.”

“Trying to impress me, are you?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, Louis. Of course, I am. You took me to New York on a private jet. Which I can tell you is the best date I’ve ever been on. And here I’ve got you in my sad little flat, hoping to amaze you with a home-cooked meal and my flowers. Because that’s all I’ve got.”

Louis steps behind him, sliding his hands over Harry’s hips, and holds him that way until Harry’s tense shoulders slacken. He wants to pull Harry's hair from its bun too, but it’s easier this way to press his mouth to his neck. He feels his pulse flutter beneath his lips and smiles. “This is perfect. I’m lucky to be with you anywhere,” he says. “No need to be nervous.”

“You obviously haven’t seen yourself,” Harry says, turning to face him. “Dressed in all black, at that.” He runs his hands over Louis’ T-shirt, his palms warm. “Wearing the cologne I like.”

“Didn't know you liked it.”

Not a lie, but not a complete truth either. He could tell Harry liked it based on how he presses his nose into Louis’ neck whenever he gets the chance, as he does now, murmuring, “Now you do.”

Louis turns his head just enough to connect their mouths in what will be their first kiss in four days. He counts time in encounters with Harry.  _Four mornings and three sleeps until Harry._   _One work day until Harry._

Harry presses his hands into the edge of the worktop and hops up, sliding his legs apart for Louis to stand in the space between. He pulls him close by the hips, leaning in again.

“You taste sweet,” Harry reports.

“It’s the ginger molasses biscuits,” Louis says, untying Harry’s apron. Harry lifts it off and drops it aside, as Louis pushes his hands up beneath the hem of his shorts, fingers brushing the soft hair on his thighs. “I like these.”

“I’m planning to change.”

“I really, really like what you have on,” Louis says.

Harry lifts his brows. “The decade-old denim shorts decorated with soil and flour do it for you?”

“They do,” Louis says, laughing. “I’ll take them off for you later.”

“Alright, then.” There’s a slight flush to Harry’s ears and neck. He kisses Louis twice more and then whispers, “My chicken’s got less than five minutes left in the oven.”

Louis barks a laugh and steps back, allowing him off the worktop. Harry finishes with his flowers, then leads Louis up the steps. It smells incredible inside the flat. He doesn’t realise how hungry he is until he starts salivating. He kicks off his shoes at the door and follows Harry past the kitchen to the small dining table.

The place is tidy as always, but the table has been done up a bit for the occasion. There’s now a crisp white tablecloth and three candles in assorted jars burning on top. There are, in fact, candles burning everywhere, which feels like a safety hazard. But it’s beautiful, even more so when Harry sets the sunflowers on the centre of the table.

He turns to face Louis. “I can take your jacket.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, shrugging it off.

Harry folds it over his arm. “Uh, would you like wine? I’ve got some Merlot, Pinot Grigio, and Prosecco.”

“Prosecco is good,” Louis says, taking a seat.

Harry heads back into the kitchen. He returns a moment later with his hair down, tumbling freely over his shoulders, and Louis stares shamelessly. Harry clears his throat and Louis blinks and notices the glass Harry’s got raised.

Louis reaches for his own and hoists it up.

“Should we toast to us?” Harry asks. “Four weeks steady.”

Louis smiles. “Definitely to us.”

They tap their glasses together and drink, gazes locked over the rims. Louis almost thinks to pass on dinner and draw him into his lap and maybe Harry detects the thought forming in his head because he steps away, smiling coyly.

“I’m going to get the chicken,” he says, setting his glass down. “It’s garlic, lemon and honey-glazed.”

Louis drags his hands down his face. “Sounds lovely.”

Harry returns with a red baking dish secured between his oven-mitted hands, removes the oven mitts and tosses them aside to lift a serving spoon. “In this pot,” he says, pointing at the one close to him, “I’ve got wild rice.” He points to another. “We’ve got fresh broccoli and asparagus in this one.”

He dishes a bit of each onto Louis’ plate and tops it off with the chicken which has been baked until it’s crispy and golden brown. Louis is back to feeling starved. “This looks fantastic,” he says.

“Glad you think so,” Harry says, grinning as he fixes a plate for himself. He takes a seat perpendicular to Louis. “Spent all afternoon in the kitchen working on it.”

“I’m flattered, love,” Louis says, unfolding his napkin and places it in his lap.

Harry has a sip of his wine. “Nothing but the best for my man.”

Louis definitely does  _not_  begin to blush. He lifts his fork, though Harry noticeably doesn't do the same.

“Are you going to eat?” Louis asks.

“Waiting for you to try it.”

Louis laughs. “That’s not creepy at all. Sure you’re not trying to poison me?”

“Guess you’ll find out,” Harry says.

Louis narrows his eyes, slicing a bit of chicken and forking it into his mouth. He chews slowly, keeping his face as stoic as possible. Suddenly he drops both fork and knife and curves his hands around his neck in a well-executed universal choking sign.

Harry laughs, his head thrown back and a hand over his eyes.

“No, it's fucking fantastic,” Louis says with a laugh, reaching for his fork again. He has another bite.

Harry kicks at his foot beneath the table. “Don’t tease me.”

“But you like being teased.”

Harry can’t deny that, so he jabs his big toe into Louis’ shin again and then wraps his bare foot around Louis’ ankle. For dessert, Harry pulls out the ginger molasses biscuits, refills Louis’ glass of wine, and asks if he’d like to see his garden.

“I can’t take all the credit for it,” Harry says, leading him back downstairs. “My nan planted most of the flowers before she died.” He walks him to the back door and pushes it open. “But I take care of it now. Me and Troye. Andy used to help too.”

There’s only a small stretch of grass available, large enough for two or three people to lie down on, shoulder to shoulder. But surrounding it are rose bushes and flowering plants. It’s so abundantly green, Louis feels a degree of peace wash over him, the kind you can only achieve when you’re standing out in the woods or hiking. It’s such a stark, satisfying difference from the busy, bustle of London.

“This is where you grow everything?” Louis asks.

“No, we get a lot delivered too. But I grow the peonies and the sunflowers here, among other things.” He plops down on the grass and pats the space beside him. Louis joins him and they kick off their shoes. Harry holds the tin of biscuits out to him. Louis takes two.

“It’s a nice shop, you know? Great location. Great set-up,” Louis says. “You should keep it in the family whenever you decide to leave. You could rent out the upstairs flat easily enough too.”

“Why would I do that?” Harry asks, dusting biscuit crumbs off his jumper. “Where would I go then?”

“You don’t plan on retiring here, do you?”

“Retiring?” Harry laughs. “I’m in my thirties. I’m not even considering retirement.”

“No, I know—” Louis shrugs. “It just doesn’t seem like the kind of place you live in forever. I can’t see you staying here if you had another option.”

Harry lifts his brows and has a careful sip of his wine. “Well, I know it’s not Primrose Hill—”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Louis says, quickly. “I like it here.”

“I’m not offended.”

“You're a little offended.”

“Maybe a little,” Harry admits. He sits quietly for a second. “I want a bigger house someday, of course. With a big bath and a big kitchen. But I don’t have anywhere to go. Besides, I raised my daughter here. I’ve got history here. I’m not in a rush to leave.”

It’s a shame because Louis has both a big bath and a big kitchen and would enjoy seeing Harry in both. He would never say so, but it’s terrifying enough that he thinks it.

“I’m sorry I offended you,” Louis says, leaning in. “The wine is getting to my head.”

“Lightweight,” Harry says, his voice muffled as Louis deepens the kiss. Louis pushes his hair behind his shoulder and presses a kiss to his jaw, then to his neck.

“It’s cold,” Harry whispers. “Let’s go inside and warm up.”

Louis lifts his head and smiles. “Got an idea how we can do that.”

“Come show me,” Harry says, getting to his feet.

He lets Louis pull the shorts off slowly and finger him open and tease his nipples until his hairline is dark with sweat. By then, he’s impatient and pushes Louis onto his back and takes what he wants. He moves languidly like he’s got all the time in the world, vacillating between watching Louis with half-lidded eyes and throwing his head back. Louis isn’t sure he believes in God, but there’s something divine about Harry.

Louis can’t get his hands on enough places, can’t get enough air to his lungs. He grasps him by the hips and holds him steady, fucking his hips upward until they come, and then they roll onto their sides, panting and spent.

Louis discards his condom, wipes Harry down, and lets Belle back into the room. He climbs back into bed, meeting Harry for a kiss. “Mind if I smoke?”

Harry shakes his head. “There’s an ashtray in the drawer.”

“I know I said I’d quit—”

“You said you’d  _try_  quitting, which you did and that’s good enough,” Harry says. “Besides, I had a smoke three hours ago to settle the nerves.”

Louis laughs around the cigarette between his lips. He lights up and lies back, lifting his arm for Harry to settle beneath. Harry rests his head on his chest and accepts the cigarette when he offers it to him. It’s a terrible habit, but Louis might be in the process of falling in love and the nicotine makes that significantly more palatable.

“How did your last relationship end?” he asks.

Harry exhales his smoke and hands the cigarette back. “That’s not a very romantic question.” He seems to think about it though. “His name was Kevin and it only lasted for three weeks. We’d been sleeping together on and off for about three months before we actually started to date. Andy was starting to get really into the music thing, playing gigs here and there and that was my primary focus. He told me we were off to a bad start, that I wasn’t making enough time, and he broke things off.”

“Sounds like an absolute tit.”

Harry laughs. “He was, yeah. Most of them are. But I’m not so easy to date either.”

“I disagree,” Louis says. “ _We’re_  off to a great start.”

Harry chuckles, tucking his face into Louis’ neck. He kisses him there. “It’s a little different with us, I think. We understand each other,” he says, tracing the ‘78’ tattooed on Louis’ chest. “I’m starting to understand you, at least.”

“What’s not to understand?”

Harry gives him a look. “You were so intimidating at first, but that’s not who you are at all, is it? You’re not as cool as you pretend to be.”

Louis pouts. “Ouch.”

“It’s not an insult,” Harry says. “When you’re all suited up and straight-faced, you know it works for you. You know everyone’s a little in awe of you, which means they never get too close either. I don’t know why you do it. ‘Cause I’ve seen you lose your cool. I’ve seen you let yourself go and that’s when I feel closest to you.” He touches Louis’ jaw, his fingers so careful like they’re handling glass, and Louis wants to shy away but can’t because it’s Harry.

 _You don’t have to be cool all the time_ , his mum had once said to him. It’s the nature of Louis’ upbringing that made him the way he is, whether she intended it or not. He’s always looking out for others, maybe to the detriment of himself.

Louis swallows around a strange wad in his throat. He can only hold Harry’s gaze for so long before he has to look at his mouth instead. “Well, that’s an interesting theory.”

Harry smiles. “Just a theory.”

†

Harry wakes as slow as treacle and if he weren't so beautiful about it, Louis would give his shoulder a shake. But he likes watching him unravel like a flower, likes the twitch of his mouth or the flutter of his eyelashes. He likes the little breath he draws before his eyes open and he finds Louis there beside him. He pushes his fist against his eyelid and rubs the crust away and Louis thinks he’s gorgeous.

"Do you always watch me sleep?" Harry asks, his voice so deep in the morning Louis feels it in the pit of his stomach.

"We haven’t shared a bed that many times,” Louis says with a scoff. “But no. I couldn't help it this time." Then softer, he adds, "You’re lovely to wake up to.”

“I like how you say that.”

“What’s that?”

“Lovely,” Harry says. “I remember the first time you said that to me. After Halloween a year ago. At that pub in Chelsea.”

“When that dickhead stood you up?”

“His uncle actually died, as it turns out, but yes. You said ‘you look lovely’ and I don’t think any man has ever said that to me.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s poetic,” Harry says.

Louis bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing. “Never thought of it like that.” He runs his hand over Harry’s lower back. His skin is softer than the Egyptian cotton sheets Louis bought for him, softer than all 1500 thread counts. When his pinky brushes the cleft of his arse, Harry’s breath hitches. Louis looks at him, licking his bottom lip. “I want you again."

Harry glances between them at the obvious tent in Louis’ pants. "I was picking up on that," he says. "How do you have energy this early?"

"Having a beautiful man in bed beside me will do that."

"Do you have many beautiful men in your bed?"

"You know the answer is no."

Harry smiles coyly. "Just wanted to hear you say it." He rolls away. "I'll be right back."

He disappears into the loo for a while and returns with a clean face and minty breath. He shuffles beneath the covers and leans into Louis.

"Love kissing you," Louis murmurs.

"Keep doing it," Harry says, right before Louis tongues into his warm minty mouth. Harry reaches for his hip and with a tug, Louis gets the idea, settling between his spread legs. He leaves Harry’s chin a bit pink when he pulls away and he'd shave if he thought Harry didn't like it. But Harry presses reverent fingertips to his skin like always and Louis thinks he likes it just fine.

Harry lifts his hips the second Louis hooks his fingers over his waistband and then parts his legs again, kicking the briefs away. He runs his hands up the backs of Louis' thighs trying to draw him down and close but Louis stays on his haunches, wants to just look at him, at his flushed cock lying against his thigh and his soft stomach and his dark nipples and the sweat building in the dip of his collarbones.

"So fucking gorgeous—"

Harry smiles. He manages to pull Louis in enough that when he bucks up, their crotches meet. He groans, his head tilting back, exposing his neck for Louis to suck a bruise into. Harry wraps his legs around his waist and presses his fingertips into Louis' bum.

It's like that for a while, them rutting against each other, licking at each other's mouths. Harry isn't afraid to get messy or sloppy during sex. Louis thinks Harry likes it under the covers because it leaves them sweaty and sticky. He thinks he likes to suck on Louis' earlobe or bite his shoulder because of the teeth marks and saliva he leaves behind. He licks Louis' abs clean after he comes. He presses bruises into Louis' thighs and then darkens them with his mouth. Louis always feels Harry on him well after they’re finished. Sometimes not even a shower can wash him away. Sometimes Louis skips a shower because he doesn’t want to.

"Fuck me," Harry breathes.

Louis tosses his hair away from his eyes. "Turn over."

Harry does, pushing his bum into the air obscenely. He watches him as best as he can, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle. Their gazes stay locked as Louis lowers his mouth and takes a broad lick at him.

It'll sound wrong if Louis says it aloud but he's never wanted to please a man the way he wants to please Harry. He's not a selfish lover by any means, but he’s never touched anyone like this either. A little reverent, always desperate. Like he’ll die if he doesn’t get inside him. He fucks Harry in a self-sacrificial way. No matter how his hips tire or how badly he wants to come, he doesn’t let himself go until Harry is ready to fall with him. No matter how much his jaw aches, he keeps licking and sucking at him until Harry’s fists are twisted in his sheets and he’s drooling.

Louis gives him a slap on his arse. “Still with me?”

“Do that again,” Harry says, which Louis will take as a ‘yes’. He gives him another slap, right cheek this time.

Harry groans, his hips thrusting backwards. “Again.”

The next one leaves Louis’ palm stinging.

“Fucking Christ—” Harry breathes, rocking backwards over and over again, doesn’t seem to care that Louis’ still wearing pants. Louis uncaps the lube and pours it right on him, pushing his thumb past his rim. Harry whimpers, sinking down onto his elbows, and stills just long enough for Louis to get two fingers inside of him. Then he’s rocking again, a bit mindlessly. “Want you inside me.”

Louis scrambles for a condom.

“Not here,” Harry pants.

Louis spits the corner of the wrapper from his mouth. “What?”

“In the kitchen,” Harry says, and to Louis’ utter dismay, he turns over. “I’m going to make us tea.” He pulls his pants back on. “And I want you to come find me and bend me over the counter and fuck me there.”

Louis’ cock actually twitches. “A fantasy of yours, is it?”

“What gave me away?” Harry asks, kissing the corner of Louis’ mouth, and slips out of bed. “Give me six minutes.”

Louis collapses on the mattress as he goes. He can’t do six minutes. He gives him four and a half. The water is still boiling when Louis steps into the kitchen. Harry stands with his back to the rest of the room, which might be part of the gimmick. Louis doesn’t clear his throat or announce his presence. Maybe Harry already knows he’s there. Maybe he knows that Louis appreciates the view of his bum clad in tight black briefs.

Louis gives in to the role. He steps up behind him, pressing both hands into the counter on either side of Harry’s hips. “Good morning.”

Harry huffs a small laugh, letting his head recline back against Louis’ shoulder. “Morning.”

“Don’t know how long I’m supposed to let this play out for,” Louis says, pulling Harry’s waistband down, just enough to get inside. “But I can’t wait.”

“Me neither.” Harry shoves Louis’ pants down as Louis kicks his legs apart. “Do it now.”

“Ask nicely,” Louis says, rolling a condom on like his life depends on it.

“Please, Mr Tomlinson.”

“God—” Louis pushes into him until their hips are flush.

Harry does it to him every time. When he lets himself go, he gives Louis the freedom to do the same. He gives and gives and gives and Louis takes, takes, takes until he’s near to bursting. It’s more than roleplay. It’s therapy.

Louis hooks his right hand over Harry’s left shoulder and pushes him down. “Like that?”

“Yes,” Harry breathes, his cheek against the countertop. “Fucking give it to me—”

The angle must do it for him because his voice cuts off and each time Louis thrusts, he can only manage a grunt or groan. The lower cupboards rattle each time their knees knock against them. The kettle is close to howling from the sound of it, but Louis probably won’t stop to turn it off. Harry probably won’t let him. In fact around then is when Harry digs his fingernails into Louis’ thighs. Any harder and he’d draw blood. Louis answers that with another slap to Harry’s arse.

“Jesus Christ—” Harry curls his hand into a fist atop the counter.

Louis gets a good handful of Harry’s curls and tugs him upright for a kiss. Harry comes seconds after Louis touches him, his soft cry echoing in Louis’ mouth. Louis pulls the condom off and starts fisting his cock. He tucks his face against the curve of Harry’s neck and comes with Harry’s name and a swear hissed through gritted teeth.

Then the kettle goes and they laugh as Louis shuts it off.

"I got tested.”

He almost misses Harry speak, breathless as he is.

"Should get the results in by the end of the week,” Harry adds, pulling his pants up. He shoves his hair away from his face.

Louis stares at him. “Oh,” he says, stupidly. There’s no other way to articulate the full-bodied rush he gets then, head-to-toe, like it could lift him off the kitchen tiles. No one has ever gotten tested for him and he’s never felt compelled to ask them to. But he thought to ask Harry, if he could work up the nerve. Now he doesn’t have to. Harry lifts his brows, obviously expecting more of a response.

Louis draws a breath. “I’ll get tested too, then.”

Harry smiles, nods. “Good.” He kisses him. “Let’s go have a shower.”

And Louis agrees but this is one of those mornings where he’d rather not wash Harry off his skin just yet.

†

“Don’t go.” Harry wraps his fingers around Louis’ wrist loosely, halting him as he sits upright.

“I have to. I have a meeting at two,” Louis says, threading their fingers together. He should have left after breakfast. But Harry was insistent about eating in bed. And an inevitable nap followed shortly after.

Harry pulls Louis’ hand to his mouth and kisses his knuckles. “Stay a while longer.”

Louis looks at him, at his soft sleepy smile and his creamy skin aglow with sunlight. “Harry—”

“Ten more minutes.”

With a heavy sigh, Louis settles down beside him again. “Ten more minutes.”

It takes nine minutes for Harry to doze off again. Louis presses a kiss to his mouth and his forehead, and then carefully lifts Harry’s arm from around his waist. He sits upright again.

“No,” Harry mumbles.

Louis laughs. “I really, really have to go, love.” He shuffles out of Harry’s reach and stands, reaching for his jeans on the floor. He fastens them. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Harry keeps on pouting anyhow, half of his face hidden by his pillow. Louis smiles, pulling his shirt over his head, running a hand through his hair so it’s artfully messy. He presses his knee into the bed and leans in. “I had a really good time. I don’t want to leave you.”

“Then don’t leave me,” Harry says.

Louis attempts one parting kiss. Harry cups the back of his neck and gives him another. Louis begins to draw back but he’s stopped with another kiss and then another. He could do this all day. But he does have a meeting, a very important one with a potential new artist, and he has to go. “I have to go,” he says, pulling away. “I’ll see you.”

He leaves the bedroom without looking at Harry again because he’ll never leave if he does. He’s at the front door, pulling on his shoes when Harry shuffles out, wrapped in his quilt.

Louis shakes his head. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not really, no.” Harry leans against the wall by the door. “When am I seeing you again?”

“You can see me whenever you want.”

“In two minutes then?”

Louis laughs again, pulling on his jacket.

“Tomorrow?” Harry asks. “I can come to you.”

Louis would joke about Harry being needy, except it’d be pretence. He’s just as needy and eager to see him as soon as possible. It’s intoxicating to feel wanted and to want him this much.

“Tomorrow is good,” Louis says, grabbing his keys. He looks at Harry, his smile small. Harry pushes himself away from the wall and steps close, drawing his quilt around them both. He kisses Louis again, then simply hugs him. Louis’ heart thumps oddly. It feels corny to say it skips a beat, but Louis thinks it does. He wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and presses his face into his neck.

“Thank you for coming,” Harry says.

Louis shuts his eyes, breathing him in. “Thank you for having me,” he says just as quietly. “Best date I’ve ever been on.”

Harry laughs. “I doubt that.”

“I mean it. It’s the company that makes the date,” Louis says, and Harry is the best company. He feels himself blushing a bit. There’s something about how close they’re standing, how forcefully his heart is beating, or how much he wants to say that makes him bashful. He clears his throat. “It’s your birthday in a week or so. How do you feel about spending the weekend in France?”

“Showing me up again?”

Louis shrugs. “Or we could stay in and order a pizza.”

“No, no. France sounds perfect,” Harry says, laughing. “It’s Andy’s 18th, so we’re having a big thing at my parents’ in the morning, but then I think she’s heading off with friends.”

“I’ll send a car for you later then.” A beat of silence passes with them just looking at each other. Louis desperately doesn’t want to go. Not because he’s pathetically co-dependent but because later that night, he would return to his own lonely home and sleep in his own lonely bed. He fully understands the plight of addicts because of Harry. If your life is dull and a shot of coke washes it in colour, wouldn’t you do it too? Wouldn’t you want that as often as you can get it? To sleep and wake up beside Harry is the finest drug and Louis is an addict. He draws a breath. “Alright. I’m going.”

Harry nods and releases him, leaning his head against the doorframe. Louis glances at him once more before taking the first step. It’s not the first time he thinks it over the past twenty-four hours, but it’s the first time he feels compelled to say it. That pesky four letter word. Except it’d be something like:

_I’m falling in love with you and I hope that’s alright._

†

**AUGUST 2018**

The day Harry presented his test results to him (along with a freshly baked cupcake), Louis fucked and spilled into him within the hour. The word ‘love’ had been on his lips then too. He’d wanted to shout it out the instant his orgasm hit. He’d wanted to curl around Harry in bed afterwards and whisper it to him.

Because he did love him. He had for a while before he said so. He could fill up a whole ocean with his love and start a flood. He could write a thousand songs about his love. He could subsist on love alone but not if it hurt.

And God, did it fucking hurt.

Louis tricked himself and he doesn't do that often. He’s a realist, an aspect of his personality he can thank his mother for. He can bullshit other people all he wants or lie if he thinks it's best for them, but he’s almost always honest with himself.

But he took the test results and the lazy mornings and late nights and the trips to New York and the fact that Harry kept coming back— He took all of that and  _felt_  loved. Harry looked at him like he loved him so Louis believed it. Even now, on his first night in his Argentinian hideout, he can't admit to himself that he was wrong.

Louis leaves the bedroom and settles on the couch in front of his dying half-hearted fire with no energy to get it going again. He hasn’t slept a full night for days. Coming here isn't turning out to be the reprieve he'd hoped for. He should have broken things off with Harry before leaving. It’s all he can think about now. When he returns to London, that’s the task waiting for him. He thinks he owes him the decency of doing it in person. The bottom line is he has to do it. That’s certain. Because even now he’s thinking about Cassiopeia Noonan and how it’s not Harry’s fault that her death left a crater in his heart. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t trust Louis, can’t fully commit to him. Maybe he needs more time, more patience.

Louis could forge a million excuses with this love.

He doesn’t have much time left or patience is the thing. He’s nearly forty and in love with someone who may need five or ten more years to love him back.

He finishes one cigarette and immediately starts another. He shuts his eyes and tilts his head back. A small laugh leaves him because the inverse option is to cry and he only allows himself to do so in the shower. He’s trying to think long term here. He’s good at that. He’s good at erecting a plan where others might not. Thinking on his toes, his mum always said. Louis would be that person at the scene of an accident, fashioning a way to stop the victim’s flow of blood.

He needs to be that person now. He spreads a hand out over his heart.

_How do I stop the flow of blood this time?_

And before he even poses the question in his head, he knows he’s fucked. He’s going to bleed out. This thing he has with Harry is the kind you never get over. He’s going to live the rest of his life thinking about him. He’s going to croak and die one day with Harry’s name concealed in his last breath.

Louis’ mobile buzzes on the coffee table. Until then, he’s been ignoring texts and calls. Spoke to his mum and then tossed the damn thing aside to work through his Marlboro Lights.

But it’s nearly midnight here and something makes him sit upright and reach across the table.

 _I’m outside_ , the message reads,  _and I’m not leaving._

†

“Not too late to change your mind,” Louis says. He’s only joking but regrets it immediately. He isn’t having second thoughts, contrary to how it sounds. He’s not assuming that Harry is having second thoughts either. But everything about the last two weeks has felt too good to be true and if he has any doubts, it's about whether he’s awake or dreaming.

Harry’s brows immediately crease with concern. “I'm not changing my mind. Are you?”

“No,” Louis says, reaching up to run his hands across Harry's shoulders and the smooth black material of his tux. He looks at him from head to toe. “You look beautiful.”

Harry’s smile is small. “So do you.” He cups Louis’ jaw and looks him in the eye. “I want to marry you.”

“I know.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

“God, yes—” Louis says. “More than anything.”

Harry pulls him forward and jams their mouths together. If the kiss is hurried, it’s because they have a ceremony to get to. Harry pulls away with an exhale. “Let’s just fucking do it.”

They just fucking do it. They walk hand-in-hand to the sprawling picturesque shore of Coromandel Beach. Along with a celebrant and another witness, Andy is waiting for them, wearing a lovely red dress and holding a small bouquet of yellow roses between her hands. She brings the rings forward when called, takes pictures with Harry’s Leica and throws rice at them as they kiss.

And just like that, Louis is a married man.

They find a low-key restaurant afterwards; their only criteria being that there's good music and good dessert. ‘You have to have cake on your wedding,’ according to Andy. A band is playing at The Rotunda, a traditional-style pub with a modern spin. PItted leather booths line the walls. The wood of the floors and tables is a dark cherry. Stained glass lamps hang from the ceiling. But there’s also a Beyonce painting on the wall, a disco ball, and TVs tuned to New Zealand Idol. The band is playing a cover of ‘No Cars Go’ by Arcade Fire followed by Enchanted by Taylor Swift.

Harry and Louis occupy one side of the booth and Andy leaves to get them menus and returns with three shots and pints on the way. “To the Newlyweds,” she says.

They lift their shots, tapping them together, and throw them back.

Louis drapes his arm over Harry’s shoulders and Harry shuffles closer. Andy snaps another picture, then gets one on her phone and sends it to their mums.

“I’m starving,” she says, lifting her menu. “How about a pizza?”

Louis laughs. “This is the best reception I’ve ever been to.”

“What he means,” Harry says, “is pizza sounds great.”

It tastes great too. Louis realises he’s skipped breakfast and lunch once the pie is set in front of them, steaming and gooey as they draw slices away. The nerves had gotten to him earlier, but now his hunger catches up to him. They eat slice after slice, pausing to clap or whistle whenever the band starts up a new number. Really, they shouldn’t draw attention to themselves, but it’s a small restaurant that’s surprisingly not too crowded on a Friday night.

Andy walks over to the stage while he and Harry share a slice of chocolate cake.

“Would you have thought we’d be doing this?” Harry asks.

“Specifically like this or getting married in general?”

“In general,” Harry says. And then, “Maybe both.”

Louis licks a bit of chocolate off his spoon and angles his body towards him, throwing his arm over the back of the booth. “I liked you the moment I saw you, you know that? I thought you were beautiful and there was something odd about you that I wanted to figure out. You’ve always felt special to me. Sometimes people come into your life and you know they’re going to change it somehow. And that was you.” They’ve taken each other’s hands now, Harry’s thumb stroking his knuckles. “But did I think I was going to marry you? No. I thought you were going to ruin me. Break my heart and leave me to pick up the pieces. And I fell for you anyway.”

Harry laughs. “I’m glad I mostly proved you wrong.”

“Me too. Don’t think I saw myself eloping, but this is perfect,” Louis says, kissing Harry’s hand. “It fits us.”

Andy returns to the table. “Put in a song request,” she says, smiling. “Surprised he knew it.”

They look at her suspiciously and then at the band, waiting for the turn of the song.

“So, technically, if this were a normal reception, there would be gifts,” Andy says. “And we’re by no means normal, but I think we should at least honour that.”

Louis likes how she says that.  _We’re._  As if Louis is one of them. He supposes that he is now.

Harry’s brows arch. “Did you get us a gift?”

Andy pulls a white envelope from the pocket of her clutch and slides it across the table. “Just a small something.”

Harry tears the envelope open. “It’s a key,” he announces, looking at her confusedly.

“To your place in Bora Bora,” she says, clapping her hands gleefully. “It comes with a pool, a hot tub,  _and_  a sauna.” She ticks each off on her fingertips. “There’s also 24-hour service. Anything you need, it’s yours. It's all on me and you can stay as long as you like.”

He and Louis are silent, looking at each other, looking at her.

“Don’t freak out at the same time,” Andy says.

“Babe,” Harry says, exhaling an overwhelmed breath. He slides the envelope to the center of the table. “This is too much.”

Andy crosses her arms. “No, it isn’t.”

“You can’t pay for our honeymoon,” Harry says. He looks at Louis. “Right?”

Andy looks at Louis too and it's marginally unnerving having them both staring, especially with how similar they look. Louis prays he doesn’t have to mediate for them often. “Uh—”

“Tell him it’s fine,” Andy says.

Louis looks at Harry. “Andy says it’s fine.”

Harry gives him a flat-lipped look.

“Dad.”

Harry turns his head to her.

“Please let me do this for you,” Andy says. “There’s nothing I could ever give you to make up for everything you’ve given me. Let me do this  _one_  thing for you both.”

Harry looks at Louis again, although this time it’s different. He lifts his brows and Louis thinks about their talk on the flight over.

“Louis and I will accept your overly generous gift,” Harry says. “But—”

He doesn't finish that thought because then the lead singer begins the opening lines of ‘I Have Nothing’ by Whitney Houston. Harry thrusts his hands into the air, standing to his feet, looking equally ridiculous and marvellous in his tux.

“Good one,” Louis tells Andy, sending her a wink.

Harry begins to sway, waving his arms in the air. Louis whistles with this two fingers between his mouth. They're really beginning to draw attention but Louis doesn't care at all. He pulls Harry down and lays a kiss on him even.

“My flight’s at midnight,” Andy says. “I should get back to the house and get to the airport.”

Harry frowns, reaching for her hand. Louis does the same. “Thank you for coming,” Harry says. “And thank you for the trip.”

“I’m just happy to be able to do something for you,” Andy says.

“Well," Louis begins, carefully. "There’s something else you could do for us actually."

“Name it,” Andy says.

“You’ll need your phone,” Louis says.

Andy releases their hands and gets her phone from her clutch. “What else?”

Louis takes a breath. “You’ll need to log on to Twitter.”

†

Andy leaves minutes after they get to the house. The Wonderlands have a concert in D.C. in two days and according to her, their honeymoon essentially started the minute they left the bar, which means it's weird for her to stay any longer. Harry reluctantly helps her pack her things and then there's a car waiting outside and it's time for her to go. She kisses them both on the cheek and hugs Harry longer but squeezes Louis just as hard.

Louis remarkably finds it in himself to stay offline. Harry returns from the foyer after seeing Andy off, and finds him in the living room, standing by an elaborate stereo system.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, wiping a lingering tear off his cheek.

“Trying to figure this thing out,” Louis says. He presses a button, then turns to Harry. “Think I got it.”

‘I Have Nothing’ starts up again, sung by Whitney herself, and Harry laughs.

“I never get tired of this song,” he says, propping his hands on his hips. “It's a classic.”

Louis walks towards him. He holds his hand out. “We owe each other a dance.”

“You’re right.” Harry sets his hand in Louis’ and steps as close to him as their bodies will allow. He hunches a bit so he can rest his head on Louis’ shoulder and they move, languid and unhurried.

“I never thought I’d be doing this,” Harry murmurs. “To answer my own question. I never thought I'd be this happy.”

But he deserves it. Perhaps more than anyone in Louis’ opinion. All those years spent punishing himself for losing Cassie or sacrificing his happiness for Andy, this is his reward for suffering through them. Louis will spend the rest of his life making him this happy.

They dance for half the song and kiss for the other. Harry leaves to get the bottle of champagne chilling in the kitchen and Louis waits for him in the bedroom. He feels oddly virginally jittery. He twists his wedding ring around his finger, then holds his hand up to the moonlight. He lowers his hand as Harry appears, holding two glasses of champagne, and pauses there at the door, smiling.

Louis sits upright, resting his forearms on his knees. “Mr Tomlinson,” he greets him.

Harry’s smile grows impossibly wide, and then he laughs. He sets the flutes down on the bedside cabinet and crawls onto the bed. “Mr Styles,” he murmurs, pressing his mouth to Louis’. He moves closer, pushing Louis onto his back as he straddles his lap. “I think we should hyphenate, by the way.”

“Is that your final answer?” Louis asks because Harry has been debating with himself for a while.

“Yes. I think so. Maybe. I’m fond of my surname,” Harry says, threading their fingers together. “But I’d like yours too.”

“You always want it all.”

Harry leans in. “I think I have it already.”

Their smiles melt into a kiss. Everything sort of melts off and away until they’re naked and their skin is dewy with sweat and Louis is pushing into him slow. Nothing compares to being this close with the person he loves. He’s done a lot in nearly forty years, but there’s nothing so sweet or sacred as the way Harry sighs beneath him, the way he lifts his hips to meet Louis’, or spreads his hands across Louis’ back and draws him in close.

“I love you,” Harry says, quick and breathless because he’s at his limit.

And nothing compares to that either.

Harry holds him against his chest while they catch their breath, his fingers drifting through Louis’ slightly damp hair. “I wish we could stay here forever. Or anywhere, just you and me.”

“What about Andy?”

“She’s welcome to visit anytime,” Harry says, chuckling. “I’ve devoted so many years of my life to her and I don’t regret them at all. But there’s so much I haven’t done or seen. And I’m really looking forward to doing and seeing it all with you.”

Louis lifts his head so he can look at him. “I’m going to show you the world, baby. You have no idea.”

†

It storms in the morning, but in the most magical, ethereal way. The ocean right outside their window is grey and the sky a seamless gossamer white. Every now and then there’s a soft rumble of thunder and in the distance, a strike of lightning. They stay in bed for a while watching it unfold and then they watch it from their deck over breakfast.

Harry spreads strawberry jam on a piece of toast and has a bite.

“Got a little here,” Louis says, pointing at his own face.

Harry drags his index finger across the corner of his mouth, then sucks the jam off slowly and with more tongue than necessary.

“Really sexy,” Louis tells him.

Harry smiles and has another bite of toast. He looks towards the ocean. “We should stay here for a bit before Bora Bora. At least for a week.”

“I was thinking the same. There's so much I haven't seen here. Like the Milford Sound. Napier. And Queenstown. And we can check out to the hot springs too. You'd love them.”

"Can't wait," Harry grins, lifting his mimosa. Louis is on his last bite of waffle when Harry looks away from the stormy ocean and asks, “Do you want to look now?”

Louis smiles. “Yeah, I think we should.”

“I’ll be right back,” Harry says. He returns moments later with Louis’ laptop and glasses and they share a lounge chair. Louis pushes his glasses on and navigates to Twitter.

Andy’s tweets have about sixty thousand likes and retweets so far. There are tweets from his friends and Harry’s friends, Zayn and Nick and James, and their family too, like their sisters who are only a little disgruntled about their elopement. They don’t read the replies from strangers, knowing how toxic those can be. Some articles have begun to populate, so they read the headlines instead.

_‘Has Louis Tomlinson Just Come Out?’_

_‘Louis Tomlinson: Gay and Married!’_

_‘Did Louis Tomlinson Just Wed Andy Styles’ Dad?’_

_‘Andy Styles Hacked?’_

“Oh, come on,” Louis says to the last one.

Harry laughs, his head falling against Louis’ shoulder.

“Give them time,” he says, pressing a kiss to Louis’ cheek. “They’ll get there soon enough.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t matter. Louis shuts the laptop and curls himself around Harry, kissing him beneath his ear where he’s ticklish. What matters is the sound of his husband’s laughter and that Louis now has a lifetime to hear it. What matters is that he’s done hiding. What matters is that he has something he wants the world to know about and they will.

†

**SEPTEMBER 2018**

Fortunately, Louis knows how to navigate the inevitable awkwardness between stepparent and stepchild. His mum’s two marriages taught him plenty. The day after Gemma’s wedding, he wakes early to make Harry and Andy breakfast because, as he recalls, his mum’s last husband, Dan, won them all over with a truly first-class lasagna dish many years ago. It’s the first night Andy’s spent with them and therefore, as good a time as any for Louis to whip up a full English.

What he doesn’t realise is that, unlike her dad, Andy is an ostensible early riser. She appears at the entryway to the kitchen, messy-haired and sleepy-eyed, wearing joggers and a jumper that are both a few sizes too big for her.

“Something smells good,” she says, her socked feet shuffling softly on the floor.

“Good enough to wake your dad up?” Louis wonders.

Andy huffs a laugh. “Possibly. Is this his album?” she asks of the music playing from some part of the kitchen.

Louis lifts his phone, flashing the screen where the cover art of  _Rumors_  is hard to miss. “Nope.”

“Never knew you liked Fleetwood Mac,” she says, taking a seat at the island.

“Who doesn’t?”

“Fair question,” Andy says. There’s a deck of cards sitting by a stack of coasters. She cuts and shuffles them idly, tapping them against the marble every now and then. “How was Bora Bora?”

“Incredible. We slept most of the time, did a bit of hiking. If not for Gemma’s wedding or you girls breaking from tour, we might not’ve come back.” Maybe that’s not the right thing to say, that he wants to take Harry away for months on end, just the two of them. He adds, “But it  _is_  really good to be back.”

“Good to have you back. We haven’t had time to talk,” Andy says, shuffling the cards again. Her eyes flicker to his. She looks so much like Harry when she does that, which has more to do with  _how_  she does it than with their eyes being the exact same colour. “You know, just me and you.”

Louis gives a little upward push to his glasses with his knuckle. “Do you want to talk?”

She looks at him. “I think maybe we should.”

“Alright.” Louis hops up onto the worktop and waits.

“I just feel like I should apologise again to you personally. Because I really could have fucked this all up, yeah?” She pokes her finger through her bun and scratches. “You leaving was my fault. I’m the one who made my dad think he had to choose.”

Louis sighs. “I’m sure he’s said this to you, but it’s not your fault at all. That’s not how it works. We’re all adults here, so if your dad and I fell apart, it’d be on us, not you.”

“I still said awful things to him. Because I was only thinking about myself.“ She sets the cards down. “I knew he liked you. I can always tell. And all the telltale signs were worse with you.”

Louis can’t help how he smiles. “What exactly are the signs?”

Andy rolls her eyes. “It’s mostly the way he looked at you, but sometimes it was how he talked about you without talking about you. He’d avoid mentioning you by name, but I’d still end up mentioning you in response to some question. Or if I happened to mention you randomly, he’d pretend to be distracted by his phone or something.”

Louis scratches his beard, trying to hide how big his smile has grown. “Good to know.”

“He’s ridiculous and so obvious, and I still tried to pretend like it was nothing.” Andy sighs. “He deserves someone like you. He deserves something that’s just his. I’ve never seen him this happy and I nearly ruined that. So I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. And thank you for taking care of him.”

Louis reaches out and sets his hand on her forearm. “I’ll forgive you if you forgive me. For keeping it all a secret and putting you in an uncomfortable position.”

Andy nods. “I forgive you.”

“Good,” Louis says, smiling. He goes back to the hob.

“My dad told me you’re going to have a baby,” Andy says. “Last night, before bed.”

Louis looks at her again. He hesitates, although he doesn’t know why. “Yeah, we hope so.”

Andy smiles, looking like Harry yet again with her two dimples. It’s hard not to love her. She’s got the same lighthouse effect going for her that Harry does. When she smiles, the room, which was already flooded with sunlight, seems brighter. “I’ve always wanted a little sister.”

“Sister?” Louis repeats, brows shooting upwards. “You’re confident we’ll have a girl.”

“I’ve got my fingers crossed,” Andy says, laughing.

Harry steps into the kitchen five seconds later, in just a T-shirt and boxers. “What’s so funny?” he asks, slipping his arms around Louis’ middle. He kisses his cheek and releases him. “And what are we making?”

“I don’t know,” Andy says, hopping down from her stool. “But it’s taking forever.”

“Hey,” Louis says.

Andy shoots him a smile. “I’ll start on the toast.”

“Grab the eggs while you’re at it,” Harry tells her, taking a bite of a sausage Louis managed to finish. Just like that, they’d invaded the kitchen. Louis gives up and joins them.

They sit in the garden afterwards, the three of them and the dogs sprawled on the grass beside them. It’s a perfect breakfast, thanks in no small part to the company.

†

**OCTOBER 2018**

The ‘on-air’ light burns steady beside them and Nick sits forward, his headphones donned and a set of notecards in his hands. He gives them a big smile and begins with a cheerful, “Good morning, everybody! And welcome. I’m Nick Grimshaw and I’ve got two very special guests for you today. Louis Tomlinson and his new husband, Mr Harry Styles. Some of you might know him as dad to Andy Styles of The Wonderlands. Welcome to you both.”

“Thank you,” Louis says, his smile big. “Happy to be here.”

“And how are you feeling?” Nick asks them excitedly. “You look very well-rested.”

“We’re very well-rested,” Harry says, looking at Louis. “And feeling great, yeah? I’m really great.”

“I’m also really great,” Louis says.

“Fantastic,” Nick says. “You should be feeling really great at this point because you're very newlyweds. A bit early to start feeling not great. I’d be concerned if you were.”

“Hopefully, we never get to a point where we aren’t feeling great about each other,” Louis says.

“Not even when I annoy you?” Harry wonders.

“You’re rarely annoying,” Louis says. “But no, not even then.”

“Oh, God.” Nick taps his cue cards on the table, straightening them. “For those of you listening, there's a lot of hearts floating around in here. Lots of eye cuddling.”

“Is that like eye sex but PG?” Harry asks.

“That's exactly it, Harry,” Nick says, smiling beatifically. “Could also call in eye spooning.”

“Sounds painful,” Harry says, cringing.

“It does, yeah. I have to ask at least one big question before we play a song. And there are a lot of big questions obviously with this being your first interview since your wedding, since everything. There's been a lot of buzz surrounding you two and I'm curious to know how you’re adjusting to all that?”

“Are we?” Harry says, lifting his brows. “That’s the question.”

“Yeah, I don't even know if we are,” Louis says. “We’ve spent a lot of time at home or travelling. And there's kind of been this bubble around us, so when we step out of that for a second and see an article or something, it's still a little jarring.”

“I think we’re getting there,” Harry says. “But mostly we’ve just been home, hanging out, doing a bit of gardening—”

Louis rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling. “You had to bring up the gardening.”

Nick laughs. “Is gardening a euphemism or are we talking actual gardening?”

“This is actual, serious gardening,” Harry says, emphatically.

“How often do you do this?” Nick asks. “Are we talking several times a day?”

“No, no.” Harry’s brow wrinkles as he thinks. “We like to get out there once a day, at least. Check on the tomatoes.”

Louis covers his face with his hand, and Harry continues, laughter marring his words.

“We’ll give the roses some water. It’s a very lovely garden, considering it’s just a month old.”

“Would love to see it sometime,” Nick says, looking impressed. “Now, Harry, the rumour is that you’re no longer working at your flower shop in Northampton. So what’s next for you career wise?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it. Obviously, we’ve spent a lot of time just taking it easy. So I think, I’m not too pressed to figure all that out. I still  _own_  the flower shop, so I pop in regularly and help out. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the studio with Louis. But yeah, I think for right now, I’m not too concerned with work.”

“Don’t blame you for that at all,” Nick says. “Do you think you’ll end up involved with music?”

Harry shrugs. “It’s a possibility. I don’t think I’d mind that. Um—” He looks at Louis. “We’re a very musical family, so it’d probably be weird for me not to be involved. And it’s also something I’ve always been passionate about and I obviously raised Andy to be passionate about music too. Her mum was the same. And then we’ve got Mr Producer here,” he says, giving Louis’ thigh a pat. “So I’m really the odd ball out if I don’t work on some music, right?”

“You’re not wrong,” Louis says, smiling. Roping Harry into the industry is his plan, anyhow. He’s got an amazing voice, a great eye for music and lyricism. It’s both the lover and the producer in Louis that wants Harry involved in his business, and Louis tends to get what he wants.

They play a few songs from the playlist he and Harry put together, and chat with Nick a bit while sipping their tea. They make plans to have him over that weekend, so he can see their garden.

They play a game, involving congratulatory tweets from friends and family.

“Wow. Big congrats to the stealthiness man I know. My gift is in the post,” Nick reads. “Was that a) Tyler Swanson, b) Ed Sheeran, c) David Beckham, or d) Louis’ aunt Sally?”

Harry laughs. “I think we should rule out David Beckham. You two are close, but maybe not that close.”

“Not close enough for him to send a gift,” Louis says. “And Ed actually DM’d me, so I don't think he'd tweet after the fact.”

Tyler Swanson, Louis’ old band mate, did send a gift, but it was a five-thousand-pound bottle of champagne sent via messenger.

“I think we should go with Sally,” Louis says.

“Who I've only spoken to on the phone so far,” Harry says. “But she's great.”

“You are correct!” Nick says, followed by some sound effects. “That was Sally Deakin, who just tweeted again actually because she's listening in. She says, ‘Took you long enough. Enjoy the gift!’”

“Hasn't arrived yet, but we will,” Louis says.

Nick sets his notecards down after the game, which seems to signify that he's going rogue.

“So I remember when it came through, I actually got a load of texts and tweets immediately afterwards,” Nick says. “My phone started going off every three seconds and I genuinely thought someone had died. Imagine my relief when it was just you two getting hitched. But I have to know what the motivation was behind doing it via tweet? Whose idea was it? And how did Andy respond to you getting her involved?”

“Andy was very cool about it,” Louis says. “She was the only one there when we got married. And then she sent us to Bora Bora for a bit afterwards. I think she just wanted to help and be involved as much as possible. So she kind of jumped at the opportunity to do it.”

“Think it was my idea,” Harry adds. “But I was joking at first.”

“He’s very diabolical, this one,” Louis says of Harry. “We decided that after the wedding, we’d disappear for a bit and do some travelling. And trying to factor a big public announcement into that felt wrong. But I also didn’t want to put it off. So at first, he suggested that I write a little note and post it on my website and wait for people to catch on. Then he’s like ‘Just post it on Twitter”. In the end, we got Andy to do it because it felt like the most disengaged way to get the word out there.”

“And how has it been since? Especially for you, Louis, because in addition to being newly married, you’re also newly out to the world. Is it all overwhelming having all that happening at once?”

“It feels really good, actually,” Louis says. “Like a weight off the shoulders. Obviously, there are some scary elements to it too, but those are more bearable because I'm not doing it alone. I think, it’s been so long now that I’ve wanted to do this, that most of what I feel is just relief. And again, at the end of the day, I’m able to be wherever I want with my husband and just live out in the open. So the benefits outweigh everything else. And it hasn’t been all that scary, in general. We’ve gotten a lot of support from fans and people in the industry and our family and friends, of course. So it’s been great and I feel incredibly happy and lucky to be going through all this with Harry.”

†

**DECEMBER 2018**

It’s bitter cold out and so toasty beneath their covers, Louis almost wants to spend Christmas in bed. Glaring blue numbers on the alarm clock read 10:55. He untangles his arms from around Harry’s body and hovers over him. “Hey,” he says, shaking his shoulder.

Harry unfolds, turns over onto his back, his body loose and limp. With a small, sleepy smile on his face, he mumbles, “I’m exhausted.”

“Might’ve overdone it last night,” Louis says.

“Blindfolds really bring out the beast in you,” Harry muses. “And handcuffs.”

Louis presses a kiss to his wrist, where very faintly the skin is slightly pinked. Harry had tugged on the restraints violently as he writhed. They were both different animals last night. “You’re right,” Louis says. He’d do it all again if he didn’t think they’d be late for Christmas dinner. “You have to get up, love. My mum won’t forgive us if we’re late.”

Harry sits upright, pushing his hair away from his eyes. “I want a massage later.”

“It’s yours,” Louis says, slapping him on the bum when he stands.

Harry sends him a smile over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom. He showers while Louis packs the Christmas presents and their carryalls away in the boot. He comes down to the foyer wearing a red jumper and jeans, carrying their new puppy in his arms. “I’m ready to go.”

Louis opens the front door for him, waving a hand. “After you.”

The drive to Donny should take about three hours but it’s closer to five with the traffic. Harry pilots because he won’t admit it but he’s obsessed with the Range Rover and prefers to drive if they take it anywhere. Louis lifts his hand away from Belle’s silky coat, pointing to their left. “This one here.”

Harry parks a bit further down the road. They grab the presents and leave the carryalls for later. Louis looks at him. “Nervous?”

Harry draws a breath. “No, I’m great.”

Louis narrows his eyes. “Alright.” He turns, starting toward his mother’s home.

“Okay, I’m a little nervous.”

Louis turns back, smiling. “They love you.”

“They haven’t met me.”

“Is that supposed to be a counterpoint? I think if they didn’t love you already, meeting you would do the trick,” Louis says. No one makes it through an encounter with Harry without loving him a little. “And most of them have met you.”

“Not Doris, who’s apparently incredibly protective of you. What’s she to say to the man who swooped in and married her brother and then never met her for nearly four months.”

“We’ve both been busy. She’s been busy with school. That’s not your fault.”

Harry sighs, glancing towards the house.

“Love, I’d hug you if I could,” Louis says with his arms full of presents. “I promise it’s fine. I’m crazy about you. They will be too.”

Harry’s lips twitch. He starts walking again. “Crazy about me, are you?”

“Oh, shut up,” Louis says.

His mum and Dan answer the door with the biggest smiles on their faces. Dan helps unload the gifts from their arms, then wraps Louis in a hug. His mum pulls Harry into her arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek. There’s no time to say anything to her because he’s caught in a hug by Fizzy and Lottie immediately afterwards.

“Is Andy on her way?” Lottie asks.

“She’ll be here in an hour,” Harry says.

He hugs the oldest twins and meets Ernest in the kitchen, then cuddles Charles for as long as he’ll let him. There’s more family in the living room and they’re all looking at Harry, not unkindly but Louis still steps in, sliding an arm around his waist for comfort.

“You’re doing great,” he says into his ear, earning a smile.

And then Doris steps into the kitchen. She’s wearing denim overalls atop a cream-coloured jumper, her red hair fixed into a ponytail, fringe just brushing her eyelashes. She enters with her phone in her hands, firing off a text, it seems like, and comes to a full stop when she sees Harry.

“Well, finally,” she says, shooting a look at Louis. She stuffs her mobile into her pocket and strolls closer.

Louis rolls his eyes. “So dramatic. You two will get along fine,” he says. “Harry, this is—”

“Doris, of course,” Harry says. “And I resent that comment.”

“So what if we're dramatic,” Doris says. “Where there's drama, there's fun.”

Harry smiles. “I like her already," he says to Louis, and then to Doris, "It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She opens her arms for a hug and Harry laughs and steps into them. She draws back. “We’ll have to chat over tea. About your secret wedding. I’m good at keeping secrets. Next time you can tell me too.”

Harry glances at Louis. “Next time we definitely will,” he says. “Promise.”

Aside from Doris, their secret wedding seems to have blown over with everyone else. His mum knew their plan hours after Harry proposed, but his siblings stayed in the dark until Andy’s tweets. He doesn’t have regrets about it. It’s hard to feel regret about anything these days.

Andy arrives with a few gifts and a bottle of wine and a Christmas card from Harry’s parents. They all finally sit down to eat, laughter and chatter drifting around the table over the soft clink of forks and knives. Beside him, Harry entertains Doris in a helter-skelter conversation while across the table, Andy chats with Lottie and Fizzy. He meets eyes with his mum and she smiles, a twinkle in her eye that he imagines is reflected in his own.

Later, he helps her load the dishwasher, their sleeves pushed up to their elbows. They work quietly for a moment, humming along to the Christmas tunes from the stereo.

“I  _really_  like him,” she says at random, pausing for a sip of her wine.

“I know,” Louis says. “You said so before I married him.”

“Well, I’m saying it again,” she replies, bumping her hip against his. “I almost thought it was over for you two.”

A beat of silence passes. “So did I,” Louis says, a little reluctant because he hates to consider a reality where he doesn’t have this.

“I wouldn’t have been angry with him. Not really,” his mum says. “I understand how it is, being a single parent, struggling to maintain a love life on top of everything else. But he came back for you. He fought for you, which is exactly what you need.” She sets her wine glass down. “You’re always fighting for everyone else. Someone should be in your corner too.”

Louis dries his hands on a dishcloth and looks at her. “You’ve always been in my corner.”

She lifts her hand to his cheek. “And I always will be,” she says. “But you’ll need someone to grow old with. And I’d say you’ve found a proper fit.”

Louis’ eyes sting slightly and he looks down at his socked feet, trying not to let it show. His mum clucks her tongue and pulls him into a hug. “I keep telling you it’s alright to cry.”

He tucks his face into her neck and spreads his hands across her back. “I love you.”

“I love you too, darling,” she says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She releases him. “Now, go save your poor husband from Doris. You know how chatty she can be.”

Louis laughs and passes his thumbs under his eyes. He takes a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a bag of pretzels on his way out. Harry and Doris are in the sunroom with Ernest and the dogs. Lottie and Andy are off to the side with baby Christopher. Louis approaches Harry, leaning down to speak into his ear.

“Come with me,” he says, taking Harry’s hand, and tugs him to his feet.

“I’m still talking to him,” Doris complains.

“I can see that,” Louis says, sending her a wink. “We’ll be back.”

“Where are we going?” Harry whispers as they leave.

“The attic,” Louis says.

“Are we coming back?”

Louis snorts. “No.”

There’s a bed in the attic where they’ll be sleeping, but they plop down by the bay window. They’re comfortably squished together, their legs tangled. Louis pours them glasses of wine while Harry tears the bag of pretzels open.

“I love Doris,” Harry says, popping a pretzel into his mouth.

Louis laughs, the sound echoing in his glass of wine. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“I mean it,” Harry says. “She’s opinionated and thoughtful. She reminds me a bit of Andy.”

“Well, she’s equally fond of you. She wouldn’t have spent so much time talking to you if not,” Louis says. “By the way, I was right and everyone loves you.”

Harry runs his hand down Louis’ thigh. “You were right and everyone loves me.” He looks through the window, resting his head back. “This isn’t where you grew up, is it?”

“No, bought this place for my mum three years into the band. My childhood bedroom was pretty sick. Wish you could have seen it.”

“I wish I’d known you then,” Harry murmurs. “I was a huge flirt in my teenage years. You wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

“I never stood a chance, period.”

Harry scoffs. “You weren’t so easy to hook, Louis.”

“I was hooked when I  _met_  you,” Louis says.

Harry shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe him but there’s an obvious blush beginning to colour his cheeks. “I was smoother when I was a teen. And I would have chased you all through secondary school. And you wouldn’t have been able to resist me.”

“We’d be the couple everyone talked about,” Louis says.

“And we’d marry right out of university and move to a place in London we couldn’t afford.”

“And have a few pets we also couldn’t afford,” Louis adds. “Bet we’d still drive your Jeep.”

Harry laughs. “Definitely.”

“It’d be a bit like your Northampton flat,” Louis says. “Tiny enough for two.”

“And then when we were…29? 30? We’d have to move because we were ready for children.”

Louis smiles, threading their fingers together. “Sounds like a dream,” he says.

“It does. But we’re living one already,” Harry says, setting his wine glass down. “I’ve been meaning to tell you— Out of your three picks, I like Emily.”

Speaking of living the dream.

Louis is caught off-guard by the mention, but every time they talk about their  _children_ , he has something of an anoxic reflex. He tenses, sometimes worried that any sudden movement will wake him from the dream. He draws a steady breath. “I like Emily too,” he says. The list of surrogates had been long, but they’d opted to divide and conquer. Louis narrowed it down to twelve. Harry cut twelve to nine. Together they got to six. Two days ago, Louis handed Harry print-outs of three profiles, but even then, he’d been stuck on Emily.

“I’ll give the agency a ring tomorrow,” he says.

Harry untangles their legs and moves forward. “Good,” he says, kissing him on the mouth. “Next Christmas, we’ll be three.”

Maybe he says it knowing how much it’ll rile Louis up. He always pushes all the right buttons, just as he’d done last night when Louis came home to find him naked in their bed with a pair of handcuffs dangling from his index finger. Now Harry takes his earlobe into his mouth and murmurs, “You’ll be such a good dad, I know it.”

Louis bucks his hips up, loving the little breath Harry sucks between his teeth when their crotches meet.

“We shouldn’t do this in your mum’s home,” Harry says.

Louis presses a hand to Harry’s lower back and grinds into him again. “You mean this?” He gets his hand into Harry’s  jeans and pulls his cock into the open. Will never get tired of how heavy and hot he feels in his palm. “Or this?”

†

**JUNE 2019**

Rose has cut her long blonde hair into a shorter style that makes her look a bit older, not that she ever had any trouble exuding an air of power and confidence beyond her years. It’s something Louis always admired about her, as much as it pained him. Despite the haircut, all that confidence has noticeably dwindled since he last saw her months ago. She sits across from him at his desk, her hands folded around a cup of tea, and can't bring herself to look him in the eye.

“Thanks for meeting with me so quickly,” she says.

Louis gives her a small smile. “I was happy to hear from you. And…Gianna?”

Rose nods. “Yeah. She’s um— I fired my sister. ”

Louis sits back in his seat, eager for her to go on.

“I needed a new manager, so I found Gianna. She’s been great so far. She actually told me to reach out to you. She said you’d want to help.”

Louis purses his lips. “With what?”

Rose draws a quick breath and sets her tea down. “I made a lot of mistakes last year. I can’t blame my sister for them because she didn’t force me to make them. I did that myself.”

Louis would disagree. Rachel is the only parental figure Rose has known for most of her adolescent life and possesses a great amount of influence over her. She may never have forced Rose outright, but _coerced_ , _guilted_? Those are terms Louis would use without question. But he sits quietly and allows her to go on.

“I realise now that it was a mistake to leave the way I did, to leave at all. I miss performing and I miss the band,” she says, quietly. She shoves a lock of her hair behind her ear like it’s the source of all her frustration and not the words she’s struggling to say. “Music is the thing I’m best at and the thing I love most. And I want to keep making music. So I came to ask if it's possible for me to come back.” She says it all in one breath. "I want back in."

Louis would love to ring Harry right about now. Harry would say something soothing or something to make him laugh, and this would seem a lot less daunting. But he obviously can't interrupt Rose to talk with Harry. He goes for the next best thing, which is a cigarette, only to remember he’s not had one since December. In preparation for Luna. He checks his drawer for a pack anyway and is unsurprised to find none.

He looks at Rose again. “Back in the industry or in the band?” he asks finally, pushing the drawer shut.

“Both?”

“Are you asking me?”

“Both,” she says again, lifting her chin a little. The fire is back, not in full force, but it’s kindled, at least.

Louis exhales a laugh. “I can’t bring you back to the band,” he says. “You and Andy are awful together. You try to upstage each other every chance you get. Competition is good, but not like that. And that’s not to mention whatever romantic thing you had going.”

“We didn’t—”

Louis looks at her, his brows raised. “Andy told me everything,” he says carefully. “She was pretty upset about how things turned out. I’d say she still is.” He speaks as the stepdad, not the producer, with an acerbic edge of disapproval reserved for anyone who’s broken or may think to break Andy’s heart. Both stepdad and producer would say Rose owed Andy an apology ten months ago for playing sweet on her and then whipping out the dagger.

Rose looks down at her lap. “I didn’t mean—”

“Say it to her,” Louis says. “Bottom line, I can’t bring you back to the band.”

Rose blinks. She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have come,” she says, standing.

“Sit down,” Louis says, his voice caustic and withering on impact. Rose sinks into her chair again with something of a glare directed at him. He’d love to send her home. He'd love to be done with her piss-poor attitude once and for all. But that’d be a concession and Louis doesn’t concede.

“That didn’t take long at all,” he says. “Music is the thing you love most but you’ve walked out on it twice.” He holds up two fingers, his elbow propped on his desk. “If you pulled that shit with any other producer, you’d be done. You’re not a kid anymore. You don’t get to hide behind your sister’s decisions or expect a slap on the wrist when you fuck up. Whether you make it or don’t is on you. The next time you give up on yourself, so do I. Understood?”

Rose drops her gaze. “That’s not what you’re doing now? Giving up?”

“Obviously not,” Louis says. “You’ve technically still got a contract with me that I expect you to make good on." And then against his better judgement but true to his word, he says, "I’m signing a band in a few months. They’re from Ipswich, two boys and one girl. Right now, one of the boys, Casper, he’s on vocals, but I think they’ll have more impact with a girl vocalist as well. Of course, not just any girl would do.”

Rose looks at him, wide-eyed and speechless.

“Well?”

“Thank you—”

“Show up on Saturday. If you’re a good fit, you can thank me then.”

She thanks him anyway, several times before she leaves. She'll be a good fit, he knows that. He wouldn't have propositioned her if not. Of course, the issue isn’t how _well_ she plays, but how fair.

Something tells Louis that won't be a problem. If nothing else, he believes her when she says she loves music and she won't sacrifice it again. Something tells him she'll be on her best behaviour for the foreseeable future.

†

**NOVEMBER 2019**

Luna makes them wait. Thirty-nine weeks pass and Louis struggles to sleep. He’s antsy and Harry’s attempts at pacifying him are noble, but nothing works. After forty weeks, Louis resigns himself to his anxiety and exhaustion. Harry comes into the office each night and peels him away from his computer and walks him to their bed.

“What is this?” Louis asks, seeing all the magazines piled on the bed.

“I’m working on a scrapbook,” Harry says, setting the magazines on the floor, except for one. He shows it to Louis. Rolling Stone, May 2011. A caption on the cover reads ‘Most Powerful Man in Music’ beneath a photo of Louis with his hands folded together. “I know you have copies of these in your office, but I ordered my own online.”

“Is that one your favourite?” Louis asks, climbing atop the mattress. He sinks down beside Harry, resting his head in his lap.

“Most Powerful Man In Music,” Harry says. “I think yeah, this one’s my favourite.” He flips through the pages. “And this photo shoot. Jesus. I want Luna to see these.”

Louis smiles. “When she decides to get here.”

Harry sets the magazine aside and rests both hands on Louis’ chest. “Soon.”

Louis shuts his eyes and lets the word wash over him, setting his hands atop Harry’s.

“Only a matter of days now,” Harry says before he falls asleep.

Three days later, on the 11th of November, Harry finds him in his office again and wakes him with a shake of his shoulder, a kiss on his cheek and a whispered, “Lou.”

Louis sits upright, scrubbing his face with his palms. “Shit,” he mutters, remembering a call he was supposed to make an hour ago. He touches Harry’s hand on his shoulder, reaching for his glasses. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Harry says quietly. “I’ve got the car running.”

Louis looks at him.

Harry smiles. “Emily is in labour.”

He says it all so calmly, but Louis still shoots out of his chair like a bullet, pushes his feet into some trainers and climbs into the passenger seat of the car, his knee bouncing the whole way there. They arrive at the hospital and are directed to a private waiting room.

“Cassie was in labour for a whole night,” Harry says after two hours pass, which he probably intends to be reassuring. In an odd way, it is. Harry shoots him a smile, threading their fingers together. “Hopefully, Luna is in a bit more of a hurry.”

Fifteen minutes later, Louis is peering through the window, overlooking a car park and a busy street while Harry’s head rests on his shoulder. There’s a knock at the door, it opens, and he and Harry stand like members of a royal court when their sovereign enters the room. Because she’s there, swaddled in a nurse’s arms.

“Would you like to meet your little girl?” the nurse asks. Louis nods, wiping his sweaty hands on his joggers, and steps forward. She’s practically weightless and yet he feels like he’s got the whole world in his hands. Her eyes are just barely open, but noticeably crystal blue and a knit cap adorns her head. That’s all Louis takes in before his vision blurs. Harry wraps his arms around his shoulders and presses a kiss to his damp cheek. “It’s alright,” he says, softly. “She’s perfect. And she’s yours.”

Louis turns to him, knowing he doesn’t mean anything by it, but it still feels incredibly important for Louis to place Luna in Harry’s arms right then. “She’s ours,” he says.

Harry smiles, his eyes bright and glowing in the fluorescent light. He presses a kiss to her forehead, swaying her. “Ours.”

†

Louis wakes to find Harry kneeling in front of him, running his thumb over Louis’ hand thrown over the arm of the rocking chair.

Louis looks towards the cot. “What time’s it?”

“Two in the morning,” Harry whispers. “I miss you in our bed…”

Louis squeezes his tired eyelids. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Harry waves the baby monitor at him. “These work just fine.”

Louis sighs and pushes himself to his feet. “It’s a really comfortable chair.”

“I think our bed is more comfortable,” Harry says, taking his hand. They stop to peek in the cot at Luna. She’s fast asleep, although they’ve got less than five hours before she wakes hollering. Harry leads him into the hall, pulling the door shut, and then into their own room. He climbs into bed, holding the duvet up. Louis shuffles right into his arms, drops his head against a soft pillow, and Harry’s right: this is infinitely more comfortable than the rocking chair.

†

**FEBRUARY 2026**

Year twenty-six is starting out on a good note for Andy. She's seeing a drummer from an indie band named Sarah, who Louis and Harry like a lot, but refuses to bring them home for fear of jinxing it.

She's also nominated for four Grammys and is scheduled to perform.

The night before, Harry dozes on one end of the couch while Peter plays FIFA and Louis sips a beer, coaching him periodically. He hears the fridge door shut and cranes his head to peek into the kitchen, making sure it's not Luna sneaking ice cream again. (The last time, Harry snuck the ice cream for her.)

Andy smiles when she sees him looking. “Just me,” she says, stepping into the living room with a bottle of Stella and a bag of crisps. She sits between Harry and Louis, pulling her knees up to her chest.

“How's he doing?” she asks.

Louis shrugs, then whispers, “He's an amateur.”

Andy laughs, reaching for a crisp. Louis sticks his hand in the bag after her and draws out a handful.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” she says, lifting her bottle to her mouth. “Can't sleep either.”

Louis laughs. “Who needs sleep?”

“Not us,” Andy says. She glances at Harry, snoring beside her. “Not the majority of us.”

“He’s been running around with Lu and Pete all day. Picked up their outfits for tomorrow,” Louis says. “He's got an excuse.”

“Have you got your outfit too?” Andy asks. “I expect you to look sharp onstage with me if I get Song or Record of The Year.”

“First, I always look sharp. Second,  _if_? I think it's guaranteed, love.” Louis has a sip of his beer. One doesn’t occupy the top of the Billboard Hot 100 for ten consecutive weeks or debut at number one in 85 countries or sell over 12 million copies globally to not win a few Grammy’s. “Third, my suit and your dad’s are being delivered tomorrow morning.”

And they’ll all be wearing Gucci, each piece featuring a bit of maroon, even Luna whose dress is almost entirely sequined. Harry’s trousers and jacket are both maroon with a black lapel and black stripe running from his waist to his feet. Louis will wear something of the opposite, all black but with a maroon vest inside, along with snakeskin boots similar to Harry’s and identical to Peter’s. The photos of them on the red carpet will be glorious and he's never been more ready to gloat.

“Guaranteed,” Andy repeats. “How sure are you about that?”

Louis looks at her. “Bee,” he says, his gaze levelled with hers. “I've worked with nearly a hundred artists since I started my career, before and after One Direction. And I've  _never_  been as confident in any of them as I am in you. You're walking away with at least one Grammy, but I'd put money on all of them.”

Andy smiles and drops her head on his shoulder. “I’m wearing a suit, you know? Janelle Monae style.”

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous about that too,” Louis says, draping his arm around her shoulders.

“I'm more nervous about tripping in my heels,” Andy says. “You should see the shoes I'm performing in. I'm going to break my bloody neck.”

Louis snorts. “So dramatic.” Just like her dad. He starts to tell her about his first time performing at the Grammy’s and his first win and how he threw up in the loo minutes before stepping on stage. When he left his cubicle, Justin Timberlake was stood there at the sink, washing his hands. He’d given Louis’ shoulder a sympathetic pat before leaving. Andy laughs until she cries. They talk for an hour, rambling about their worst battles with nerves and anxiety, about Rose bursting into tears right before their show at MSG and Kendra nearly fainting when Beyoncé smiled at them during the VMAs.

And then Andy falls asleep, her head against his chest, a snore leaving her every other minute.

He’s content to sit there for a while until Peter falls asleep in the midst of his game, an animated Red Devil paused on the screen. Only then does Louis herd them all to bed. He lingers behind, cleaning up the bottles, shutting off the telly and the lights, then leading Belle and Beau up the stairs. They follow him into his bedroom and crawl atop the mattress as Louis crawls into Harry’s waiting arms.

Two seconds of silence pass in the cloaking dark of their bedroom.

“You really think she’ll win?” Harry murmurs.

“I _knew_ you were awake," Louis says.

"What gave me away?"

"You stopped snoring midway through our conversation," Louis replies.

Harry laughs. "So?" he says, his voice airy, but heavy with the weight of drowsiness. "Do you really think she'll win?"

"I know she will.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!! sad to leave these characters behind, but beyond happy you could share them with me. much love!! xx


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